


Showing You Care

by GhostGarrison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Circle of Magi, Depression, Escape, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: After another failed escape attempt, Anders can't get the feeling of failure out of his head. After discovering his self-harm, Karl reminds Anders that he's not alone this, and never will be.





	Showing You Care

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not intend this to romanticize self-harm, but rather show a bit about the relationship between the self-harming person and their chosen actions. There’s always a reason why a person self-harms, even if they know it isn’t the right way to deal. Everyone is different in this experience, so please consider that if it does not match yours.

It’s too dark, too damp, almost too silent except for the sounds of nearly starved rats scurrying about. There’s thirteen scratch marks on the wall, the chalky white lines marred by the water dripping down the grey, crumpling stone. If he spends one more day in the dungeon, the steady _drip, drip, dripping_ sound will surely drive him mad.

The only thing that keeps him tethered to reality—instead of slipping away into hallucinogenic lapses of lost time—is the all too real feeling of his skin splitting apart and warm blood gushing out. Before he used his nails, but now he has the sharpened shrapnel of metal he found tucked beneath a loose stone is more useful.

_‘Failure, fucking failure,’_ his mind screams at him, all the while dragging the metal across his skin and watching deep red liquid beading at the edge. His arms and legs are covered with healing scratches and scabbing cuts, more being added to the arrangement each day. The cutting, bleeding, and stinging serves as a constant reminder that he’s _alive_ in this wretched place…

But whether he wants to be or not, that’s an entirely different story.

When Anders returns from solitary confinement, he isn’t sure what he should be feeling. He should feel better, being free from those bars and that terrible loneliness, but nothing feels right. His chest feels empty but his skin itches. Anders wants to climb at the walls for another escape, just one more try, but the fear of being sent back to the dungeon deters him.

So he scratches and cuts, feels the blood make his fingertips sticky and stain the inner layers of his robes, and it forces him to feel alive—puts him back in control of his own body in a place where every part of his life is controlled by someone else.

He takes all the hurt and holds it close to his heart, keeping hold of it to stay afloat all day until it drowns him at night. But with the morning always comes regret, until it cycles all over again.

Unable to stop himself, Anders stops trying. He doesn’t know how, all he knows is that he needs it.

His fellow apprentices don’t see the pain, the cuts that adorn his body nor the scratches on his soul. Anders almost wishes they did, but he keeps his buttons done up to his chin and doesn’t let anyone in.

They still smile at him, most making jokes about his failed escape attempt— _’failure, failure, failure’_ forever echoing in his head like clocktower bells—but some ask earnest questions about “outside.”

This is the only time Anders finds himself genuinely happy. His smile comes naturally when he retells not only of his jaunts outside the tower but also the heat of the sun on his pale skin, how the Ferelden wildflowers tickle his ankles, and how good the food—though stolen from a market cart—tasted in comparison to dining of the Circle of Magi. But he can’t spend all his time talking about it as the memories that make him happy become old and worn, pushed aside for new and exciting gossip between apprentices.

Which is when it all comes crashing back, like wave after wave against the windy shores of Lake Calenhad.

The makeshift knife tucked beneath the layers of his robes seems to weigh heavier on days like these, drawing Anders’ attention to it constantly. He knows that he shouldn’t, that he should have left it in the dungeon cell that trapped him for two weeks, but he’s come to depend on it. The Circle is a weight upon his shoulders, crushing the air from his lungs, and feeling the red sting of the impromptu blade is the closest thing he can find to a real escape.

But he’ll never have that, Anders knows he’ll never succeed. They won’t let him. He’ll forever be a failure.

_Failure, failure, failure._

He hears the word so much he wants to carve it into his skin.

Maybe he will.

One afternoon, Anders shuts himself into a storage closet off the side of a quiet hall. He’s meant to be learning spirit healing with Enchanter Llara, but he just doesn’t see the point anymore. ‘Gifted,’ they call him, though he doesn’t feel like it.

What good is healing if he’ll never be able to share it with the world?

What good is healing if all he’ll ever feel is pain?

Instead of trying to think of an answer, he pulls out the iron shrapnel from its hiding place beneath his belt. The weight in his palm is far too familiar and his fingers curl around the base just as they have dozens of times before. Holding it up, he admires how the light from beneath the door glints off the metal’s edges, like fire dancing across it.

The first cut is shallow, misguided across his arm in the darkness of the closet but the second goes just where he wants it. The sharp metal draws lines of blood that glisten, and with the stinging pain comes a rush of something else he can’t find a name for—clarity, distraction, perhaps relief.

_‘Failure,’_ his mind echoes again, unhelpfully reminding him he doesn’t deserve even this, this miniscule escape from everything getting too heavy to bear.

He has the crude knife poised over his arm to draw another parallel line when the door swings outward, spilling light into the cramped closet. An enchanter, or rather someone he might call his friend should he believe he deserves any, stands in the doorway.

“There you are, Anders” Karl says, in that official sort of tone that Anders hates to hear when they’ve had so many intimate discussions in the past. “Senior Enchanter Jadro is livid that you’re—”

But the rest of the condemnation quickly dies in the man’s throat when blue eyes drop to the bloodied metal in Anders’ hand, widening slightly at the sight of the lines on his skin.

The man’s next few words are quiet, a sigh of a sort but worse. “Oh, _Anders…_ ”

While Anders thought he’s become numb to so many things in the Circle, the disappointment in Karl’s voice nearly kills him. He half-heartedly wish it could have.

The enchanter wastes no time, kneeling beside him and uncurling his fingers from around the knife before stashing it in the folds of his own robes. Hand in hand, Karl ushers him down several hallways while Anders follows him in a daze. Neither of them speak a word, though Anders opens and closes his mouth in an attempt to find something, _anything_ to say.

They end up in Karl’s quarters, near the end of the long semi-circular hall with other enchanters. There aren’t any doors—the source of a long-running joke amongst Circle mages—but Karl still takes time to look both ways outside the doorway before spinning on his heel.

“First,” Karl says, picking up a small flannel from where it hangs on the bedpost and handing it to Anders, “make sure to put pressure on those.”

Anders looks down at the cloth before wordlessly following instructions.

“Second,” the enchanter continues, gesturing for Anders to sit on the edge of his bed. “I’d like to share something with you.”

Anders lets out a hiss when he presses a flannel to his cuts, pushing a little harder to make the pain last a little bit longer. Anders watches carefully as Karl circles around to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The enchanter takes out stacks of old robes and spare underclothes before reaching the bottom. At last, he pulls out a leather pouch and releases the closure before upending it, emptying it on the wool blanket beside him.

Anders’ eyes widen.

A gray feather of a large bird, a small bunch of dried wildflowers tied off with twine, a chunk of pitch-black obsidian native to the region, even a fork that Anders recognizes as property of the local tavern. It’s an eccentric collection of things that would normally not have any meaning, but he immediately knows what this is. He has something just like it back in the apprentice dormitories, hidden beneath his mattress.

Anders looks over to Karl, who stays kneeled on the stone floor and watching him carefully with an unreadable expression. “Are these…?”

“You’re not the first mage with a thirst for freedom.”

“Are these all yours?”

“I had an escapist streak when I was your age.”

Anders frowns, arching an eyebrow at the enchanter. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“Perhaps not, but time seemingly moves differently here.” Karl chuckles softly, but his eyes still have a hint of sadness in them as they drift toward the floor. “It feels like ages ago that I last felt fresh air in my lungs.”

The lingering wistfulness in the man’s voice has Anders at a loss for words. If Karl has attempted to escape, he’s obviously failed as well. How has he overcome this feeling of overwhelming defeat? Anders can’t seem to get past it, no matter what he does.

While lost in thought, Anders doesn’t realize that Karl moved from the floor to the edge of the bed, just beside him. Gentle hands wrapping around his wrist startle him, jolting in his seat a little. Karl peels the flannel away from his arm, checking the bleeding before removing the cloth entirely.

“Anders,” Karl begins, his voice returning to that disappointed sadness that Anders remembers from the storage closet. He holds Anders’ arm outstretched, looking over all the visible cuts in their various ages. “I can’t take away these scars, but I want to help you from getting any more.”

Before Anders can say anything, the enchanter’s hand lights up with healing magic before bringing it to hover inches above his split skin. Anders watches as it knits together, leaving fresh skin among all the budding scars from his previous escape failures.

“You’re not alone in this, Anders. Whatever it is that you’re feeling—pain, doubt, fear, hate, sadness—any of it, you’re not _alone._ ”

There’s something about that, either the words or the dedicated ferocity of how Karl says them, that makes everything inside Anders crumble. He chokes back the first sob, but the rest come cascading through without restraint. Strong arms encircle him in a warm embrace, he leans into Karl and buries his face into his robes. 

And while Karl holds him, Anders realizes that this… _this_ is what healing is good for.

Showing someone you care.

**Author's Note:**

> just really needed to write this
> 
> find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


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